Dearly Beloved
by MizJoely
Summary: Post HLV Sherlolly. Moriarty is back, but it isn't Sherlock he's after this time; it's Molly.
1. Wedding Crasher

_A/N: Ok, so this is another story from tumblr that I kind of threw together. There will probably be four or five parts to it. It's a post HLV story, probably not the only one I'll be writing, but I was urged to share so here I am, sharing, lol. I own nothing and no one and thank you all in advance for checking this out._**  
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"You may now kiss the bride."

Sherlock leaned forward and tenderly kissed Molly, whose eyes had fluttered shut. She was dressed in a simple white cotton dress and clutched a small bouquet of flowers from Mary's small garden in her hands. The matching gold rings gleamed on her and Sherlock's fingers, and she thought she'd never been happier in her life.

"Awww, so sweet. Can't believe I missed the ceremony, but at least I'm here in time to catch the bouquet!"

Molly gasped and pulled away from Sherlock, who was glaring at the intruder, standing insouciantly by the door to the judge's chambers, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a gun that was trained on the happy couple. John and Mary had turned and started to move, but the gun held them in their places on either side of Sherlock and Molly.

Looking from one shocked, angry face to the other, Jim Moriarty's lips stretched in a manic grin. "Did you miss me?"

Moriarty's grin didn't falter even for a second as two other gunmen entered the judge's chamber, swiftly patting John and Mary down and confiscating their mobiles before herding them into the small storage cupboard and locking them in. Sherlock watched coolly as one of them jammed a chair under the handle. He rubbed his fingers soothingly over Molly's as she clutched his hand tighter, her face pale and drawn.

It wasn't lost on either of them that the judge who had just performed their wedding ceremony wasn't reacting to any of this. Clearly he'd been in on it, bribed or threatened into allowing Moriarty to do as he pleased.

"What do you want?" Sherlock finally asked, ignoring the way Molly's fingers tightened on his, as if trying to silently warn him to shut up and not antagonize her psychopathic ex-boyfriend.

"Oh, the usual," Moriarty replied, strolling into the room and stopping directly in front of the newlyweds. "A slice of wedding cake, a glass of champagne…" He swiveled his head and stared coldly at Molly. "A kiss from the bride."

Sherlock moved so that he stood between Moriarty and Molly, who had gone rigid with a combination of terror and loathing. The barrel of Moriarty's gun was pressed to his chest, but Sherlock remained between them, unheeding of the threat. "No," he ground out. He was still holding his wife's hand (was she his wife? was that actually Judge Harding standing in front of the small podium, or one of Moriarty's henchmen playing a part?), which had gone cold in his grasp. But she wasn't crying; he was absurdly proud of her silence, even knowing it was as much due to shock as to her own self-control. "Stay away from my wife, Jim. This is between the two of us."

Moriarty put his head back and laughed. Sherlock could have gone for the weapon, snatched it from his foe's hand, but the two lackeys had their weapons trained on him – and more importantly, Molly – and he knew it would be a futile gesture at best. When Moriarty had finished with his show of mirth, he gazed at Sherlock, his eyes dead and nearly black. Shark-like, John had described them in his blog, and that description, although overused and cliché, was nevertheless the one that fit.

"Sorry, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "That's not the game I'm playing now." He leaned forward, as always unintimidated by the height difference between them, uncaring that Sherlock was taller and therefore supposedly held the psychological advantage. "The game I'm playing doesn't involve you, except peripherally." His eyes drifted over Sherlock's shoulder, clearly locking onto Molly's face. "This game is called Boy Meets Girl, Boy Loses Girl..."

He reached up suddenly and smashed the butt of his pistol against Sherlock's forehead. As the consulting detective collapsed to the floor, struggling to hang onto his consciousness, he heard Jim saying: "Boy Gets Girl Back" while Molly's terrified scream rang in the background…and was suddenly cut off. Then darkness, dragging him down with a sensation of having failed the one person who mattered most.


	2. Let No Man Put Asunder

Molly screamed as Jim suddenly attacked Sherlock, clubbing him on the forehead with the butt of his pistol. Her scream was cut short, however, as one of the two thugs dashed over and clamped a meaty hand across the lower half of her face, half-smothering her as he very efficiently silenced her.

She could hear John and Mary shouting from the cupboard, the sound of one of them pounding on the door, even the rattle of the latch as she struggled to breathe, but all she could see was Sherlock's unconscious, bleeding form at her feet as she clawed at the hand covering her face in a futile effort to free herself.

The sight of Jim stepping directly in front of her captured her attention, especially once he held up a large syringe filled with a clear liquid, a few drops dripping from the tip. "Your choice, Molly," he said, capturing her eyes with his, a small smile playing about his lips. "The easy way, or the hard way." He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, "And we both know who'll suffer most if you go for the hard way, don't we." Then he laid a deliberate hand on her still-flat abdomen, splaying his fingers out and giving a light caress before pulling back to study her.

He must have read her decision in what he could see of her face or in her body language, because he jerked his head and the hand covering her face vanished, although it then clamped itself on her shoulder. She took a breath, then another, trying to calm herself enough to speak rationally, while Jim watched her with the patience of a predator who knows the inevitability of the outcome.

"I'll go with you," she said when she felt she could trust her voice. Thankfully there were no tears, although she knew they would come later. "Just…promise me you'll let everyone else go."

Jim's smile widened into a delighted grin. "I knew you'd be sensible, Molly, you always were a pragmatic girl at heart. As for letting everyone else go, well…" His features dropped into an exaggerated frown and he shook his head slowly. "Sorry, Molly, but no can do. Oh, everyone here," he raised a hand and waved it lazily about to indicate the other captives, "gets to go free; after all, a proper Boy Meets Girl story has to have some sort of romantic tension to it, doesn't? The spurned lover trying to come between Boy and Girl, not to mention the domesticated assassin gunning for said Boy…" He glanced over at the closet, and Molly's brow wrinkled in confusion. What was he talking about, John used to be a soldier, sure, but that hardly meant he'd been an assassin!

Jim was talking again, and Molly forgot about her confusion as she concentrated on his words. "But yes, I'll leave Sherlock and the Watsons alive for now, and as for Judge Harding…"

This time he glanced over Molly's shoulder, to the fiftyish man who'd performed the wedding ceremony. Was Moriarty about to reveal that he hadn't, after all, been the real judge, but a decoy, a fake? Were she and Sherlock not legally married after all?

"The judge will wait exactly thirty minutes after that door closes behind the four of us." He nodded at the door to the judge's chambers, with its frosted glass panels and brass fixtures. "Then he'll let the Watsons out so they can report your kidnapping. After he does that, he'll go here." He pulled a small business card from his suit jacket pocket and flipped it toward the older man, who fumbled but caught it in his hands. "That's where she'll be waiting, your little Christina. His granddaughter," he added, turning his attention back to Molly. "As the late, unlamented Charles Augustus Magnussen would say, his pressure point."

He grinned toothily and it took everything in her not to shrink back as he held out his hand. "Come along, Molly. We have one quick stop to make before we head out of the country."

"Where are you taking me?" Molly asked as she felt his fingers curl around her own, tugging her away from the thug behind her. She felt the other man's hand release her shoulder, but the itching sensation on the back of her neck told her he was watching her, waiting for her to try something. If it was just her own life at stake, she probably would, rather than allow herself to be so docilely lead away from her husband and friends, but there was another life to consider now, the one she and Sherlock had so impetuously made the night he confessed that his feelings for her went beyond mere friendship.

She didn't look down at Sherlock's unconscious form, knowing that if she did so she'd lose her nerve, do something stupid and end up being drugged by Moriarty. A fate she wished to avoid at all costs; it would kill her if she did anything to cause harm to the small life developing inside her.

"Just a quick stop at Baker Street to pick up little Lucy Watson. After all, Baby Sherlock needs a big sister to look after him." He turned to face Molly again with a gleam in his eyes that wasn't quite sane. "What an adorable family you three are going to be – a Holmes and a Watson for me to raise, with you as their loving Mummy."

Without looking, he tossed the gun he'd been holding into the air, where it was deftly caught by the closer of the two thugs. Molly bit her lip, nails digging into the palms of her hands as she realized that Moriarty knew the one thing she'd hoped had escaped his notice. He beckoned her closer, then paused and glanced down at Sherlock. Molly's gaze involuntarily followed his, and she flinched as she saw how badly her husband's head was bleeding, the waxiness of his skin, the darkening bruise on his forehead.

It wasn't Sherlock's head that had caught Moriarty's attention, however; as Molly watched, he knelt down and took Sherlock's hand in his, carefully working the wedding band off his finger. Then he stood up, examining it carefully before sliding it onto his own finger. Then he smiled brightly and offered Molly his arm. "Well! Here we are, newlyweds, off on our honeymoon. Won't this be fun, darling?"

Molly was trembling, unable to stop from shaking as she stepped across Sherlock and allowed Jim to take her arm. "Remember, Molly, as long as you cooperate, everyone lives." Jim placed his hand on hers and squeezed; she looked up to meet his gaze and he smiled at her. "This is going to be so much fun, Molly," he assured her. "Just you wait and see."

Then he escorted her out of the judge's chambers, down the hall and out of the building.

She only hoped that Sherlock would recover soon and find them before Molly was forced to play happy families with the madman strolling by her side.


	3. Maid of Honor

_A/N: I own nothing, thank you all for reading, sorry it took so long, enjoy the chapter!_

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It was supposed to be a fraud, the hijacking of the British airwaves by a back-from-the-dead Jim Moriarty. The feed had been traced back to a disgruntled ex-government employee with a history of mental instability, a flair for the dramatic, and a genius for computer hacking. He'd claimed it was 'just a joke', the timing declared a coincidence since he'd had no knowledge of Sherlock's exile.

Some joke. Jim Moriarty really was alive and well. And now he had Molly Hooper and Sherlock's unborn child as hostages against his good behavior.

Judge Harding had done as Moriarty directed, not even attempting first aid on Sherlock's bleeding form until the full thirty minutes the madman had dictated had passed. Sherlock had started coming round not long after John and Mary had been released from the closet, head pounding and blood in his eyes and his only thoughts of Molly and the baby. He'd been forced to stay behind and wait for Lestrade and his officers because of the injury, while John and Mary raced to Baker Street to (fruitlessly, as it would turn out) attempt to stop the kidnapping of their six-month-old daughter.

Judge Harding was in custody; his kidnapped granddaughter had been reunited with her frantic parents, and no one else had been injured or taken. Not even Mrs. Hudson; Moriarty had simply strolled into the building using Molly's key to open the front door, then locked the landlady in 221C after scooping Lucy up. He'd even taken a moment to wave a cocky 'good-bye' at the CCTV camera Mycroft had installed in the entryway…which had been temporarily rerouted to an undisclosed location, just long enough for Moriarty to take Lucy and once again vanish.

If they were anywhere in London, they would be found. The problem was, Sherlock doubted they were in London at all. The journey from the judge's chambers to Baker Street had taken five minutes at most; his particular offices had been chosen for the wedding ceremony due to their proximity, because as soon as the wedding was over the he and Molly were supposed to go off on their honeymoon.

The tickets to Barbados were still in his jacket pocket; the only thing Moriarty had taken from Sherlock's person (besides his wife and unborn child, no, don't think about how much pain that knowledge was causing) was his wedding ring. That, coupled with what John, Mary and the now-incarcerated judge had described, told him exactly what the madman had planned. Picturing him with Sherlock's wedding band on his finger was almost enough to set Sherlock spiraling out of control, but that wouldn't help retrieve Molly and Lucy.

As soon as he was declared fit, he was off, John and Mary hot on his heels. Lestrade had cordoned off Baker Street in order to allow Sherlock the freedom to search for clues, the subtle hints Moriarty must have put in place after he'd stolen Lucy away and driven off in his late model Mercedes. Mrs. Hudson described what had happened before breaking down and apologizing over and over to John and Mary for letting 'that awful man' take their baby.

"It's not your fault," Mary reassured the older woman, taking her in a gentle embrace while her eyes tracked John and Sherlock's movements just outside the front door. She wanted to be out there with the two men, helping them, but right now Mrs. Hudson needed her. However, the second either of them showed signs of getting so much as a sniff of Moriarty's whereabouts, she would be off like a shot and no apologies to anyone. Her baby was in danger, and the woman she'd come to love like the sister she'd lost long ago.

Mary's mobile vibrated suddenly, and she murmured her apologies to Mrs. Hudson as she pulled it out to see who was messaging her. Her blood ran cold as she opened the message and saw a picture of Molly, holding Lucy in her arms and very obviously trying not to cry. Mary heard Mrs. Hudson gasp as she saw the photo, and from the corner of her eye she watched as the older woman groped her way to the stairs and took a seat before burying her face in her hands.

The mobile vibrated again, and Mary shoved her emotions into a box before opening it. The text read simply, "Keep Sherlock and his pet from chasing after us for another hour and maybe I'll let you talk to your daughter. Whoops, sorry, I meant MY daughter, now. Doesn't my Molly make a lovely mother?"

The number was blocked, of course. Sherlock could probably trace it, or get one of his computer genius friends to do it for him, but that would mean she'd have to show him the message and the photo. Which was clearly not what Moriarty wanted her to do.

Secrets. Moriarty was trying to force her back into keeping secrets from her husband and friend; with a scowl, Mary made her decision.

No one was ever holding her hostage against her painfully-won good name ever again. With that in mind, she exited the building and headed purposefully for John and Sherlock.


	4. For Better, For Worse

_A/N: The views expressed by Moriarty in this chapter are his own and are NOT reflective of the views of the author, especially concering a certain former assassin-turned-wife-and-mother-and-nurse. But remember, folks, he's basically an asshole. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers, I appreciate you following me and saying such lovely things about this story!_

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Molly cuddled the now-sleeping Lucy Watson in her lap. The poor little thing had finally fallen asleep, worn out from crying, her thumb tucked firmly between her rosebud lips. John thought she needed to be weaned from that habit, Molly remembered, but didn't have the heart to pull the tiny digit from the little girl's mouth. Anything that gave her comfort at the moment was more than all right with her godmother.

She stole a glance at the madman sitting next to her in the backseat of the expensive black car that was currently carrying them away from Baker Street. Jim was humming happily to himself, looking out the window, but either her tiny movement or the sense of being watched brought his attention back to her. He smiled brightly and said, "Well, isn't this exciting! The police and your ex should be on our trail soon enough!"

"And that's…what you want?" Molly asked, confused and unsettled by his words. If his goal was to whisk her and Lucy out of the country, then shouldn't he be at least a bit more worried at the thought of pursuit?

Now that she was really thinking instead of just reacting, Molly began to wonder what he was really up to. If he wanted to make a clean getaway, surely he would have told the judge to wait more than a half an hour before releasing John and Mary? And wouldn't he have at least changed cars at some point, rather than using the same one with the same plates that CCTV cameras must have picked up? Yes, he said he'd redirected the ones Mycroft apparently had at Baker Street, but had he done the same for the ones on every London street corner? Of course he had the ability to do so; the man had hijacked the entirety of the British airways, for goodness sakes!

"Ooh, look at her, working things out for a change instead of having to be led along by the nose!" Moriarty's mocking voice interrupted Molly's racing thoughts, and she frowned angrily before she could stop herself.

Of course he laughed at her, even clapping his hands together in apparent delight at her reaction. "And now she's insulted, because even the almighty Sherlock Holmes never made fun of her for her intellect! Oh, no, he made sure all his insults for our Miss Molly – oops, sorry, I meant our Mrs. Holmes! – were strictly for her physical attributes." He gave a dramatic sigh. "And yet she married him anyway, in spite of those nasty comments about her gaining weight and compensating for the size of her lips and breasts…oh yes," he interrupted himself when Molly's expression became one of fearful surprise. "Thought I didn't know about any of that, did you? Well, let me tell you something, honey." He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner and placed a hand on her knee, grinning nastily when she flinched away from him. "Brother Mycroft may have been the one to put the cameras in Sherlock's flat and his home away from home at the morgue, but he wasn't the only one to watch and lis-ten!" he said in a sing-song voice.

Molly felt herself flush hot and cold at the thought of Moriarty spying on her even then; inevitably her mind flashed to those long-ago humiliations, the pain of those early encounters with Sherlock's biting sarcasm and downright cruelty to her. As, no doubt, Moriarty wanted her to. She took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly, looking down at Lucy to help center herself. To remind herself of what was important. The glint of gold on her left ring finger caught her attention, and helped even more. Those days were in the past; apologies had been tendered, love had been confessed, and Sherlock actually thought before he just blurted out whatever deductions happened to be on his mind. At least as far as Molly was concerned.

Besides, Molly knew the real reason for Sherlock's harsh words; he'd been trying to push her away, to stop her from loving him even as he denied that her feelings ran that deeply. And he'd been trying desperately to bury his own attraction to her at the same time. So yes, he'd hurt her, but it was equally true that he'd apologized and she'd long ago forgiven him.

"But anyway, it doesn't really matter," Moriarty said, interrupting her thoughts. "You're completely wrong; I have absolutely no desire to be caught. Mikey's men are following after another car entirely, leaving us to drive safely and unmolested through the London streets until we leave the city far behind. We'll be heading for a nice little private airfield outside Fitton where a charter plane reserved under an assumed name will be waiting to whisk us off to our new life. Leaving the Holmes brother chasing their tails while you and I begin our new life of domestic bliss!"

His tone was gloating but his expression was a sickening simper as he laid one hand over Molly's. If she hadn't been holding Lucy she would have snatched it away; as it was, all she could do was glare her hatred at him. "If you don't want them to actually catch us," she ground out, determined not to let him control the conversation, "then why only tell the judge to wait a half hour before letting John and Mary out? Wasn't that a bit of a risk?"

His grin morphed into a grimace and he sighed dramatically, pulling his hand away from hers before affecting an exaggerated pout and resting his chin on his fist. "Because, Molly my love, any longer and Sherlock would have come round, or the lovely and talented Astrid would have found a way to jimmy open the closet door."

"Astrid?" Molly repeated blankly, the words escaping her lips before she realized he must be referring to Mary. But why was he calling her…

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mary Watson's real name, the one she was born with, is actually Astrid Grace Rowena Anderson of Duluth, Minnesota. Former CIA agent gone freelance assassin, although sadly never for me. A pity, that. Oh, and she's the one who shot Sherlock," he added carelessly, although his eyes never left Molly's. "I'm betting that if he and John didn't share Mary's background with you, they didn't share that particular little tidbit, either."

No. No, they hadn't. Molly's head was reeling; on the one hand, she wanted to believe that Moriarty was just toying with her, saying terrible things to make her doubt her friends and husband. On the other hand…on the other hand, Sherlock's shooting had never been solved. Sherlock himself had seemed disinterested in discovering the truth. And John and Mary had been estranged for months after that event, not making things up until Christmas Day, when Molly had been unable to join them at the elder Holmes' residence due to a work emergency…

"God," she whispered as she felt the blood leaving her face. She was shaking, going into shock, but did her best to try and control it, to keep from jostling Lucy even though all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and try to convince herself that this entire, horrible day had been nothing but a terrible, pre-wedding nightmare. That she would wake up in the bed she and Sherlock shared at Baker Street – and had for six months now – and have a laugh at how her subconscious had decided to torture her.

But she couldn't do that. All she could do was take deep, shuddering breaths, cuddling Lucy closer when Moriarty, with false solicitousness, offered to hold her while Molly collected herself. Sherlock loved her, Molly knew that; and it wasn't his secret to tell, Molly knew that, too, but it didn't take away the sting of betrayal she currently felt.

If Moriarty had been trying to hurt her by bringing up the terrible way Sherlock had treated her in the past, he'd certainly done the trick by revealing Mary's secret.

Mary Watson, the woman whom Molly counted a friend, the woman whose child Molly currently held in her arms and had stood as godmother to, was a liar and an assassin who had shot and nearly killed Sherlock. But why? "She…she must have had a…a good reason," she muttered to herself.

Of course Moriarty heard, and of course he laughed. Heartily. As if Molly had just told the best joke ever. "A good reason? Saving her own arse, if you consider that a good reason, then sure!" he gasped out, ostentatiously wiping at the corner of his eyes. "Maybe one day I'll tell you the whole story as my dear, departed Charles Augustus Magnussen relayed it to me – oh, you didn't know that we knew one another?" He smirked at Molly's gasp of surprise. "Oh yes, indeed. Quite well. He even knew my secret – that I was alive, of course. He had no clue about my other secrets and no interest in them since I knew all about his mind palace and had no fear of killing him if he ever tried to blackmail me." His grin turned deadly. "So we didn't bother with games between ourselves. He knew I was busy with…things," he said vaguely, "which is why he didn't bother keeping me informed of his project with the lovely Mrs. Watson. But I did have quite the giggle when he told me she shot Sherlock right in front of him!"

"Shut up," Molly said through clenched teeth. Her head was pounding, her heart racing, skin clammy, and she longed for just five quiet minutes to herself. Five minutes Moriarty would never grant her. "It…there was a good reason, I know there was."

Moriarty shrugged, then examined his fingernails. "Certainly, if you count saving your own skin at the expense of someone else's life a good reason."

If he was going to say something else, he was interrupted by a sudden burst of music from his inside jacket pocket; his mobile started playing a Bee Gees song, and he snatched it out in annoyance. "What? I'm on my way to a life of wedded bliss, so this had better be…"

He fell silent, his expression darkening with every second that passed. Molly tried to listen in on the one-sided conversation, but heard only a few words here and there: "Airport" and "impounded" and "Mycroft". She bit her lip to hold back a smile of relief; it sounded as if Moriarty's decoy plan hadn't quite worked the way he'd expected it to.

If Mycroft had impounded the charter plane that was supposed to whisk them off to parts unknown, then that meant Moriarty would have to resort to whatever his 'Plan B' was. And that gave Sherlock and the police more time to find them. No matter what damning information Moriarty had imparted to her today, she still believed in her husband. He would stop this madness and bring her and Lucy home safely.

Then the two of them were going to sit down for a nice little chat about the importance of communication in a relationship.


	5. To Have And To Hold

_A/N: Almost finished with this little tale of kidnapping and mayhem. Warnings for gun violence in this chapter but nothing graphic. And for threats made against a pregnant woman and a baby. Again, Jim Moriarty is not a nice man._

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"The car's been spotted," Sherlock reported tersely as John drove them through the streets of London.

"That's good news, then," Mary replied as John remained silent, hunched over the wheel as if it physically pained him to be driving. His silence and utter focus on what he was doing was his way of coping as Moriarty tried to make them jump through his hoops yet again. Mary had immediately informed Sherlock and John of the text she'd received, and shown the picture the madman had sent her. Sherlock had then requested – demanded – the keys to the vehicle Mycroft had sent for their use from the startled driver, and they'd begun a chase that each and every one of them feared would end in disaster.

As she took in Sherlock's tense expression, not quite a scowl but damned close, she felt her heart sink. Spotting the car should have been good news, so why was Sherlock frowning?

"They're headed for St. Bart's," he said. "Changed direction from their original destination quite abruptly, according to Mycroft's PA."

"Anthea," John said apropos of nothing, or so Mary thought until she remembered that was the name Mycroft's PA had used when John first met her. Only her lovely John Watson would even consider chatting up a pretty woman while in the midst of a kidnapping, Mary remembered fondly. "So they're going to St. Bart's. Roof?"

Sherlock nodded grimly. "Where else? Obviously he's been cut off from his original plan, a pity he was tipped off about that but nothing to be done for it now but meet him there. If you cut through that alley…there!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing to the left.

Mary clutched her seat as the car swerved obediently, John's expert hand on the wheel keeping them from burning any unnecessary rubber. "We'll get there ahead of them," Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted by the screech of the tires as John made the turn. "Be on the roof before they get there." He glanced over at Mary with a small, grim smile playing about his lips. "Mary, if you look under your seat, I believe you'll find Mycroft has sent along a little gift for you."

Brow crinkling in puzzlement, Mary reached down and pulled out a square, metal suitcase. A very familiar looking one. "Well, at least that answers the question of what happened to my weapons cache," she said dryly as she entered the combination and opened the holder.

John glanced over at her, then returned his eyes to the road. "You're a damned good shot, better than I am," he said as they rounded another corner, cutting off several cars that technically had the right of way and whose drivers weren't afraid to use their horns to express their discontent. "Don't miss, yeah?"

"Yeah," Mary agreed, pausing in her preparation of the weapon to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. "We'll get her back, John." She glanced over her shoulder, caught Sherlock's eye. "We'll get them both back."

**oOo**

"Why are we here, Jim?"

Molly wasn't sure how she managed to keep her voice so calm, but she suspected the sleeping Lucy Watson nestled in her arms had something to do with it. Said arms were beginning to ache from holding the little girl for so long, but she had an irrational fear that if she let her go for even a moment, that Moriarty or one of his goons would snatch her away from her godmother.

"Because here is where it was supposed to end the first time your darling _husband_ and I did this dance," he spat out without bothering to look at her. They were on the roof at St. Bart's, standing near the parapet that ran along the outside of the roof. Jim was leaning on it and gazing groundward. He didn't need to watch his hostages, as he had three men strategically placed near the stairs they'd used to make their way up here, and there was no other way down. Except, of course, the way Sherlock had so desperately taken more than three years ago. But with no safety net in place, no secret plans with Mycroft, it wasn't an option Molly would even consider taking. Unless it was to save another's life…

As if he could hear her thoughts, Moriarty spoke again. "It's an idea, not a bad one, Molls, but not sure if I'll use it. Make you either jump, thus killing yourself and your unborn child, or else let you stay safe while I hurl the Watson brat over the side…it's something to think about."

Then he turned and gave her the coldest, cruelest smile Molly had ever seen, and she shivered and gasped, stumbling back a single step before forcing herself to stop. He would do it, too; offer her Sophie's choice and laugh at her the entire time.

"There's always a third option."

Molly gasped and Moriarty snarled at the sound of that cool, bored voice; how had Sherlock gotten up here without using the staircase, without being seen by any of them?

It didn't matter; Molly felt a surge of purest joy go through her body although she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Sherlock was here, he was alive, his head bandaged, looking utterly cool and calm as he stood there with three guns now pointing at his head.

The fourth, as Molly quickly discovered, was pointed at her own. She felt the cold steel of the barrel of Jim's Beretta against her temple and froze, joy once again turning to terror. As she gazed helplessly into her new husband's eyes, she saw him give a slight nod. Praying that she was reading it correctly, she cuddled Lucy Watson closer, closed her eyes, and collapsed to the asphalt paving of the roof.

Curling herself into as tight a ball as she could manage, huddling as closely around the now wailing Lucy as she could, eyes shut, Molly could only pray that she'd understood Sherlock's unspoken command. She could hear Moriarty cursing, felt a tug on her arm, then the sound of shots ringing out filled the air and she sobbed right along with Lucy. She heard Moriarty scream, a high, thin scream of pain, and his hands were gone. She heard and felt a thud as of a body hitting the ground, very close by her. Was he dead? Please God let him be dead, for real this time. Forever.

More shots, more shouting, and then…nothing. Only the sound of her own breathing and Lucy's wails. Taking a chance that it was truly over, Molly opened her eyes and slowly raised her head to see what the outcome of the fusillade of bullets had been.


	6. With This Ring

_A/N: OK, so I found a HUUUUGGGEE gaping plot hole that I fixed. Back in chapter 2 I showed that Molly KNEW Mary's secret. But in chapter 5, I had Moriarty reaveal that secret to a shocked Molly! BAD ME! I went back and fixed chapter 2 if anyone wants to read the version that actually makes sense. Sorry about that, and if anyon notices me doing stuff like that, feel free to call me out, either in a review or a PM, cause it totally shouldn't happen. _

_That being said, welcome to the final chapter of this little kidnapping story. I hope it doesn't disappoint, and thanks for sticking with it!_

* * *

He didn't believe in prayer, had no belief in a higher deity than cold human intellect, and yet Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, found himself sincerely praying that his goddaughter and his new wife and unborn child had been spared even the smallest injury from the gunfire. Moriarty was collapsed not two feet away from them, and the neatly placed bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, from which blood was still oozing, told Sherlock that he, at least, would never threaten harm to anyone ever again. Mary's skills with a gun were beyond par, he would have to be sure to tell her that.

Later. Right now, as Sherlock reached Molly and Lucy and dropped to his knees in front of them, the only words he could manage were a gasped, "Are you all right? Are you injured?" Eyes darting frantically over her and the loudly screaming Lucy Watson, Sherlock quickly took note of the blood on Molly's left arm. "John!" he yelled. "Molly's injured, come quickly!"

"I'm fine," Molly tried to tell him, but he shushed her, gently taking Lucy into his arms and holding her against his shoulder in the hold he knew she liked best when she was upset. The baby calmed quickly; he could hear and feel her snuffling against his shoulder and judged that she was not only frightened but hungry and – a quick sniff confirmed – in desperate need of a diaper change.

The sound of running feet brought Sherlock's attention away from his goddaughter, but the sight of her father racing toward them was a comforting sight. However, when John dropped to his knees and attempted to take Lucy away from Sherlock before attending to Molly, he frowned and gripped the baby tighter, bringing her muffled whimpers back to full howls. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock, give her to me!" John shouted. "Molly's fine, look, you git, she's fine, it's just a scrape!"

Sure enough, Molly had scrambled to her knees and was showing Sherlock the source of the blood – a large scrape on her right forearm. There were tiny bits of gravel imbedded in the flesh that would have to be removed by a pair of tweezers, she would need to be cleaned and bandaged, but John was right; she would be all right. Sherlock gave Lucy up without another murmur of protest, absently dropping a kiss on the top of her head before letting John scoop her into his arms, crooning some nonsense or other all parents seemed to make when their offspring were unwell.

Sherlock's heart lurched as he realized what trauma like this – the kidnapping as well as the heavy drop to the roof – could do to a three month old fetus. Without another word her scooped Molly into his arms and headed purposefully for the stairs. "Sherlock, what…" she started to ask, but stopped as he looked meaningfully at her abdomen. She had put her right arm around him, cradling her injured member to her chest, and nodded her understanding and her acquiescence. "I'm not in any pain," she said quietly as he kicked aside one of the dead thug's arms that was blocking the door. "No cramps or anything."

"But you need to be checked out nonetheless," he replied grimly. And so did Lucy, as soon as John and Mary had reassured themselves as to her general state of good health, that she hadn't been hit by any debris or shrapnel or stray bullets. All of which he'd already ascertained, but he wasn't her mother or father and no amount of reassurance from him would vanquish the need to see for themselves. Once upon a time that would have made no sense to him, but he very much understood it now.

On the way down they met up with some of Mycroft's men thundering up to the roof, all of whom stood respectfully aside as Sherlock growled at them to get out of the way. He yelled the status of the situation as he knew it over his shoulder, then put them entirely out of his mind, focused intently on getting Molly to the A&amp;E.

**oOo**

Two hours later, cleaned, bandaged, and scanned, Molly was resting comfortably in a hospital bed with Sherlock pacing back and forth in the limited space available to him. He refused to leave her side even after the scans showed their child was perfectly fine, that Molly wasn't hemorrhaging internally or hadn't suffered any damage to her uterus – or to any other part of her body other than her arm.

He'd even undergone his initial debriefing by Mycroft in that very room, when his brother had taken a seat, resting one hand on his umbrella and silently holding out Sherlock's stolen wedding band with the other. Sherlock had thanked him – nonverbally, of course – and held it in his hand as he answered Mycroft's many questions, and asked several of his own. Once the formalities had been dealt with, Mycroft had offered Molly his sincere appreciation of the fact that she and her child were both safe, had mumbled something about having meetings to get to when she laid a kiss on his cheek, and had practically run from the room. But Sherlock had seen the slight pinkness in his brother's cheeks, and knew that he was touched by Molly's gesture. The two hadn't ever been close – entirely Mycroft's fault, of course – and Sherlock hoped this day might prove to be a turning point. It would certainly make his parents happy.

After he left, Sherlock turned to Molly, holding his wedding band between two fingers and offering it to her. He cleared his throat before saying, "I'd very much appreciate it, Molly, if you'd put this back where it belongs…and I promise I will never let anyone take it from me again. Or you. Or our baby. Or anyone else I – "

She shushed him, taking the ring and sliding it onto his finger, then folded her small, pale hand around his before laying a soft kiss on his knuckles. "Hush, Sherlock. No need for promises or vows. I know you'll always do your best for us. And I know that there will be times, like this one, where your best might not be enough. I don't hold you to impossible standards, and you shouldn't hold yourself to them, either."

He kissed her, unable to resist, hearing the truth of her words and seeing her quiet faith in him shining in her eyes. She returned the kiss, then leaned her head back on her pillow with a quiet little sigh. "I do have some questions about Mary, though," she said. "There were some things Moriarty said…"

"Ask me anything you'd like." Mary's voice came from the half-open door; she and John entered the room. She was cradling Lucy in her arms, and from her relaxed pose it was clear their daughter was fast asleep. She handed her to her husband, who took her carefully, his eyes never leaving his daughter's sleeping face, and held her close as Mary took the chair opposite the one Sherlock had finally been convinced to occupy.

Sherlock watched and listened as Molly explained how Moriarty had so casually – and so cuttingly – revealed not only that 'Mary Morstan' wasn't the name the current Mrs. Watson had been born with, but also that she'd been the one to shoot Sherlock during the Magnussen case.

Then it was Molly's turn to listen as Mary told the story she'd already shared with John and Sherlock, a story she stressed to Molly that she'd never wanted to burden her friend with. "I thought it was gone, buried, dead with Magnussen, but I should have known better," Mary said with a sigh as she finished. "And Molly, I never wanted to hurt Sherlock, it was a combination of training, instinct and pure panic, I hope you can understand."

In the next moment, Molly Hooper demonstrated just what it was about herself that Sherlock found so remarkable: she placed her hand on Mary's and smiled. "I do understand, Mary. And certainly if John and Sherlock were able to forgive you, I can do the same. But," she added with a hint of steel, "I think everyone in this room will agree with me, that nothing like that can never happen again. We have to have each other's backs, and I think today only proves that. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Mary said, followed quickly by both Sherlock and John.

"And Molly, I can't thank you enough for taking such good care of Lucy while she was…while you were…" And for the first time since Sherlock, John or Molly had known her, Mary Watson broke down in tears, crying softly into her hands. John hurried to her side, shifting Lucy into one arm while he knelt by his wife and hugged her with his other arm, pressing kisses to her cheek as he did so. "Sorry," she gasped out as the storm began to ebb. "I don't know what…"

"Fear for your daughter's life, the need to be strong during the crisis, and the ability to finally let go," Sherlock replied crisply. "John, I do believe it's best if you take your wife and daughter home, don't you think?"

"Yeah," John replied, gently helping Mary to her feet. "And Molly," he added, turning to face her with a smile, "what Mary said goes double for me. Thank you for taking such good care of our little girl. If you've been wondering what kind of a mother you'll make, I don't think you should worry. Ever." He gave Sherlock a half-grin and added jokingly, "As for what kind of a father this git will make…"

"Overbearing, bossy and a complete fuss-budget," Molly pronounced with a grin of her own. "In other words…absolutely perfect." Then she bestowed an adoring smile on Sherlock, and he mumbled his good-byes to John and Mary, very eager for them to leave the room so he and his wife could enjoy a quiet snuggle – yes, Sherlock Holmes was eager to snuggle – on the hospital bed where she would be spending the night in order for the doctors to continue monitoring her condition.

He might have heard John chuckle fondly as the door closed behind them, but he only had eyes and ears for his wife. "I love you, Molly Holmes," he said softly as he finally shucked his coat and shoes. She scooted over as he carefully joined her on the side opposite her vitamin drip, and was even more careful with her bandaged arm as he settled in next to her.

"And I love you, Mr. Holmes," she replied with a kiss. "Now do be a love and let me sleep, yeah?" She yawned widely. "It's been a bit of a busy day."

"Anything you want, Molly," Sherlock replied as she nestled trustingly in his arms. "Anything you want."

As Molly drifted off to sleep, Sherlock found himself thinking about the late Jim Moriarty. His nemesis had tried to take away the one person who mattered most, and had failed quite spectacularly at it.

_Good riddance,_ Sherlock thought with a triumphant smirk. _No one likes a wedding crasher anyway._


End file.
